


The Games We Play

by Hectopascal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 12:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18965623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hectopascal/pseuds/Hectopascal
Summary: let's add one more "harry raised by goblins" fic to the pile.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know it's been ten years but does anybody wanna see my hp/labyrinth crossover?

_“This is a world where anything can happen, nothing needs to happen, nothing is as it seems, and the rules keep changing. Isn’t it great?_ _”_

—

Start the clock. Make a note that it is, indeed, November 1st. 

Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Rubeus Hagrid were huddled around a welcome mat, conversing in low whispers.

More accurately, McGonagall and Dumbledore were speaking softly but urgently to one another, and Hagrid was sniffling loudly into a damp tablecloth sized handkerchief, standing three heads above his companions and blocking the only porch light on the street that was still illuminated.

The welcome mat, cheerful tidings partially obscured by the hem of Dumbledore’s magnificent starry robes and the rest covered by Hagrid’s thick shadow, belonged to the residents of Number 4, Privet Drive.

Atop the brown shag was a wicker basket and in the basket, wrapped tenderly in thick blankets against the night’s chill, was a slumbering baby.

But for all that the hushed conversation taking place over his head was about said baby, or the fact that at that very moment there were thousands of people praising his name, one unconscious babe truly wasn’t that important in the grand scheme of things.

Or he shouldn’t have been, but he was. Somehow. It was all a bit confusing still, there at the beginning.

Hence, the discussion taking place between the very conspicuous persons in what was, perhaps, the most inconspicuous neighborhood within fifty miles.

“He’ll be safe here,” Dumbledore repeated patiently for the fourth time. “These people are the only blood family he has, Minerva. That’s powerful magic by itself. The boy should live with someone who loves him, just until young Mr. Black can be cleared for guardianship.”

“I _know_ it’s temporary, Albus,” McGonagall retorted sharply, unaware that she was using her classroom if-you-don’t-pay-attention-this-instant-it’ll-be-detention-for-a-month voice, “but these Muggles— I’ve been watching them all day and they’re _terrible_. You should see what they’re doing to their own son. He’s spoiled rotten. I don’t even want to imagine what they’ll do to Lily’s boy.”

Hagrid made a mournful sound and noisily blew his nose.

McGonagall winced and absently patted him on the elbow, which was as high as she could easily reach.

Dumbledore sighed, peering at her seriously through half-moon spectacles. He seemed honestly regretful, but resolute.

“A few days,” he stressed. “A week or two, at most. I’m unsure you’re giving Lily’s sister enough credit, my dear. I know Petunia and she was a sweet child. She’ll make sure no harm comes to Harry.”

McGonagall looked irked. “Children grow up, Albus.”

“But their true nature does not change,” Dumbledore said with finality. “Come now. We have tarried long enough. The Minister requested my presence and he seems rather impatient. I don’t want Harry tracked here by anyone tonight.”

Hagrid sobbed loudly and both Professor and Headmaster appeared alarmed.

“He’s jus’ a lil’ tike,” he choked. “All alone in the world… Poor James… Poor Lily…”

“Ah, Hagrid.” Dumbledore smiled. “You have a good heart, but this for the boy’s own safety and you know that it isn’t really goodbye.”

He gave the large man several more platitudes, soothing him all the while, until Hagrid regained a thin semblance of calm. The trio went their separate ways shortly afterwards, Hagrid roaring away on his motorcycle, Dumbledore departing for the Ministry, and McGonagall for her family home.

The baby they left alone would not be shaken from their thoughts for quite some time to come.

Albus Dumbledore was largely considered to be the most powerful wizard in the British Isles, perhaps even the world, legendary in his aged wisdom and famed for the battle prowess of his youth. He was a great man.

This could not be disputed, not even by those who loathed him and everything he stood for.

But he was not always right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> linear storytelling is for CHUMPS

 

Caretaker Resin didn’t even notice the newest baby when he first entered the Children’s Room to begin his shift. This was a forgivable oversight, he felt, as nobody but an omniscient being could have kept track of everything going on in such a crowded space.

Things were busy as always. 

Three toddlers were having a dispute over building blocks, five babies were making distressed ‘I need attention’ noises, and several of the older children were trying with mixed success to scale the smooth walls like lizards. 

There was a competition going on about who could bend which limb furthest in a direction it wasn’t meant to bend that couldn’t possibly end well and a fauntling had finally come into his hooves and was cheerfully stomping around, leaving smoldering imprints on the carpet in his wake.

Resin didn’t even blink at the chaos. He had been a Caretaker for fifty years this winter and he was quite acclimatized to the constant demands of child-rearing.

The addition of goblin magic to human spawn had an uncountable number of unpredictable and potentially dangerous side effects. Ultimately, it transformed the child into a pureblood goblin but that was the only certainty involved in the process. There was no telling the form they would assume or what special skills might suddenly develop or even how long it would take. 

Hence, the Children's Room and a rotating, round-the-clock staff of trained Caretakers who were responsible for the health and safety of its residents.

It was an honorable occupation, second only to the royal guard, who didn't really do much and were largely ornamental anyway. Only a fool attacked the King in his own domain and it was well known that he liked dealing with "rogue elements" personally.

In fact, Resin's cousin Mary had once seen the King mete out justice after a gaggle of dwarves managed to find their way into the labyrinth at the same time. 

The cave dwellers had caused an unspeakable amount of damage before arriving at the castle and raiding all thirteen of the royal alcohol cellars. Because it had been Soothsday, the King announced to the entire court that he was inclined to be merciful about the transgression.

Suppressing a chill at the thought of his king's idea of mercy — far worse than his idea of punishment — Resin stepped forward to break up a brewing fight between an extremely rare pair of twins who had, around month three, fallen asleep splayed on top of each other and woken to find themselves sharing a single two-headed, eight-limbed body. They were still adjusting and it made them snappish with everybody, including themselves.

After handling that, he performed his routine check of the infants too young to be mobile. 

They were kept in a separate, conditionally soundproof section of the room where they could sleep in peace and be supervised at the same time. Since his last shift, one girl had turned a healthy dark green from her toes to the tips of her fine hair and a boy had turned bright yellow, but only from the neck up, and grown six inches. All perfectly normal changes.

It was only two (two! WHOLE!) hours later that Resin noticed anything was off and even then it was because he was doing a headcount just in case one of his charges had managed to turn invisible.

(That happened sometimes. Thankfully, it didn't seem to last long but it was always a very stressful time for Caretakers.)

He frowned slightly. 

He counted again. 

He went to ask Caretaker Falliope a question and received a negative answer. 

He took on the pinched expression of a person in authority who must remain calm to prevent panic even thought that person is feeling very UN-calm, indeed.

Resin went through an ambulatory patrol of the room, putting nicknames to faces — as none of the children would get a real public name until they were adopted, of course — and trying to strangle the increasingly intense anxiety rising in his chest.

There was one too many children.

That simply should not be. It could not be... unless the King was playing a trick on them, but after the initial stealing — ah, that is to say, the  _ relocation _ of the wished-away child in question and the subsequent failure of their former minders to win them back — the King didn't really care to be involved in the child's life.

(As it should be, Resin privately believed. His King was many things, both wondrous and terrible, but a positive influence on a malleable mind, he was not).

Once the human attempting to run the labyrinth had lost, the King typically summoned a Caretaker to retrieve the child from him, the Caretaker brought them to the Children's Room, made a note on the board in front of the door, and that was the end of it. 

Simple. But deceptively so, like all things goblin.

The Children's Room was one of the best defended places in the castle. The King himself had woven the protective spells one hundred and one layers deep and it would survive anything from siege to natural disaster, untouched. 

The board out front was tied to the outer layer of defensive wards and used to allow residents to come in and out, but not without an accompanying Caretaker of sound mind.

The board had been unchanged this morning. 

And yet, there was a child where there should not be.

That was impossible.  _ And yet. _

Resin stood over the impossibility in question with a furrowed brow and hands on his hips. 

And yet, here it was.

Jet black hair, a perfectly human shade, without the underlying blue or purple or green tint that creature magic sometimes manifested. Tight, gravity-defying curls. Warm brown skin. Exactly the number of fingers, toes, limbs, eyes, mouths, and noses one would expect a human baby to have. Breathing slow and steady, sound asleep on top of a soft pillow big enough to fit a toddlers entire body and then some. Wearing yellow footie pajamas with a swan patched on the back.

... _ probably _ not an infiltration or some devious trickery.

Tentatively, Resin touched a knobby finger to the back of the impossible child's head and pressed a drop of magic beneath the skin. He closed his eyes.

All the Caretakers had a way of monitoring the change happening inside the bodies of their changes. It was a requirement. If they didn't have a natural gift, then they learned a skill that served just as well. 

Resin, personally, saw the ratio of human-goblin blood behind his eyelids, usually in mellow green numbers for some reason.

The fauntling, for example, registered as:

[7/93]

He was almost ready for adoption. The last ten percent of human usually went faster than the first five, which could take up to six months to go.

This baby, however, (around one year and a few months at best guess, if it even  _ was  _ human) came back as:

[95/0/5]

Which was. What? What did that extra number even stand for? Ninety-five percent human. Zero percent goblin. Five percent  _ other? _

There was no helping it.

Resin reached down carefully, still wary of an unseen trap, and hefted the child into his arms. He nodded at Caretaker Falliope as he walked briskly out the door.

Much as he disliked the idea, for something like this, the King had to be alerted.

 

Thankfully, the baby stayed asleep the entire trek to the throne room. Less thankfully was the reason why.

Resin performed a more intensive diagnostic on the way, wanting to be able to provide as much detail as possible when the King started  _ asking questions _ . 

If, when the King began  _ asking questions _ , the goblin being interrogated did not have answers that satisfied, more pressing concerns came up. Like, where were they going? And, would they ever come back? Frequently, these questions did not have happy endings.

Resin was upset, and not even because of his impending audience with His Majesty. He was a Caretaker to his core. It was all he had ever wanted to be and now every bit of him was righteously offended by what he found.

The baby — weight: 18.7 pounds, height: 28.5 inches, sex: male — was lacking in multiple essential nutrients and iron deficient by a significant margin. He had been fed, but not within the last twelve hours, and whatever it was hadn't done anything for his reserves, which were being taxed by the low grade fever he was running, an ear-infection, and some revolting lacy-looking growth on the bottom of his lungs that Resin couldn't identify.

None of it was immediately apparent aside from slightly flushed cheeks, but whoever was responsible for him should have noticed something was wrong. That wasn't even mentioning the cobwebs in his hair or the grime under his fingernails, which Resin also felt strongly about. 

Neglectful parents shouldn't be blessed with offspring and it was Resin's opinion, and that of general goblinkind, that the only thing such people deserved was the swift relocation of their child and summary (not necessarily swift) execution.

He still didn't know how the child had gotten into the underground, let alone the Children's Room, but he was already feeling more proprietary about the boy than was strictly wise. That mysterious five percent was also a concern.

Resin could identify the blood type of twenty seven different species by name, twenty eight including whatever the King was.

(Long, unpleasant story, that. The worst part was the glaring silver symbol in place of his normal comforting green numbers burned so far into his retinas that he couldn't blink without seeing it for weeks afterward. He still had nightmares sometimes about that symbol, layered over and over and over and over and over again.)

He knew, of course, that there were many more sentient species than those he had come across but. He knew the friendly ones fine, the ones who were tolerated well, the ones who were disliked well  _ enough _ , and even the few downright unfriendly ones he would recognize after taking a second look.

It was the unknown element that filled him with a great sense of disquiet because old enemies aside, there were things out there that hadn't been seen in centuries but were still feared.

Resin sniffed. The impossible child smelled like a normal baby, aside from the faint scent of sickness coming from his mouth. 

Resin shook his head. Listen to him, leaping straight to the most awful possibility imaginable. It was pure paranoia taking the lead after the nasty shock of finding the Children's Room wasn't as impenetrable as he'd thought.

The King would know what the child was made of. He would sort this out or heads would roll until it sorted itself.

Resin found himself cupping the back of the child's neck and walking a bit slower than necessary. Ridiculous. The King would never hurt a precious baby and no matter how uncomfortable he made certain goblins with his presence alone, young children tended to like him, for short periods of time at least.

(It was the underdeveloped brain, Resin suspected. No good instincts yet.)


End file.
